Veritas
by HDUC
Summary: When the 10th Doctor checks in on an old friend, they find that a large kink needs to be ironed out before any trust can exist between the two. The solution to the problem, though, will have an unexpected effect upon the Doctor and his lovely travelling Companion. 10/Martha, adult!
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, friends, this is my first try at writing for the Potterverse, so please be kind! It's a little weird, I know, mixing science fiction with fantasy, since the "rules" tend to be so different. But I think I made it work... I guess you'll be the judge of that!**

 **However, don't get your hopes up. There won't be a big wizard and Time Lord forces-joining scene where they fight against the Daleks and Death Eaters (although, what a concept, eh?). I have not set my sights on anything nearly so lofty. This is really just a Doctor Who Ten/Martha smut piece, and the brief foray into the Potterverse only exists as a catalyst for that. (As I mentioned in a note in my last story, half the fun these days is coming up with reasons for our heroes to canoodle.)**

 **But there's no reason why you can't squee all over the place and leave me a review about it!**

* * *

PART I

The Doctor opened the door to the TARDIS, and his Companion stumbled, exhausted, into the console room and collapsed onto her right side, on the ramp. He was not far behind. He fell against the closed portal and thanked his lucky stars, not for the first time, that he had found Martha Jones. She was not only possibly the cleverest human he had ever met, but by far the longest in the stamina department.

But as it was, they both panted like dogs, and the Doctor said, gulping air, "I've got to hand it to you, Miss Jones. You can run."

"You're no slouch yourself," she remarked.

"Thanks, but… you know you did well over half of the running."

"Where's your jacket?"

He looked down at his clothing. He was wearing the same navy-blue dress shirt he'd been wearing when the whole thing started, only now, the sleeves were rolled up. His pin-striped suit jacket, however, was missing. "Oh. I tossed it onto the control panel right after Bliff departed…"

Briefly, he contemplated going back for it, but he was, frankly, too exhausted. He didn't reckon it could be used against him in any way, so he said to himself, _sod it._

They had spent the day on a small planet, about to be seized by a being that reminded Martha very much of a walking, talking stuffed armchair. His name was Hom Bliff, and he was very much a survival-of-the-fittest sort, who did everything he could to make it ridiculously difficult to be fit. He had managed to get control of the Diorf Region, the poorest sector of the planet, and he all but tortured the folks who lived there. It was, as the Doctor had described it, a tundra where it snowed four or five feet a day, and even short-distance travel depended upon the ability to dig tunnels. Food and water were scarce, and if one stood still for too long, one froze to death. Without their heating systems, the lot of them would meet a very cold, hard fate.

And wouldn't you know it: Bliff had a giant machine in his _lair_ (honestly – who had a _lair_ anymore?) that ran all of their heat.

The machine itself was basic and partly mechanical – conveyor belt, propeller, energy converter – but its operating system was not, in any way, basic. After spending an hour taunting the Doctor and Martha, he shut down the machine, deadlocked the computer and left, laughing to himself. This forced the Time Lord and his friend to run the machine "manually," that is to say, by running on the conveyor belt like a treadmill, at a constant, quite brisk, speed, in order to keep it running and Diorf inhabitants alive.

The deadlock prohibited use of the sonic screwdriver, so the Doctor spent several hours trying to literally dismantle and rebuild the CPU with a new set of data. This left Martha to run. And run and run and run.

The Doctor took his turns, and as he ran, he would try to talk her through what needed to be done with the computer. But Martha's finesse with electronics only went so far.

And once in a while, no-one ran. But the Doctor had no idea how long the machine could be non-functional before the Diorf people would feel adverse effects, so he decided not to risk it. After a minute, maybe ninety seconds, one or the other of them always got back on the belt.

"Anyway," he panted. "Thanks for doing most of the leg-work. You're kind of amazing."

"Played football in school, and at uni. Started jogging every day during my gap year. And one of my ex-boyfriends talked me into training for a half-marathon," she reported from the floor.

"Wow. How'd that go?"

"It didn't. Broke up before the day. Shame, that." After a pause, she added, "I'm just going to spend the night here on the floor, okay? Will you bring me a sandwich in about an hour?"

"Yes, I will," he said. "But not here."

He moved forward a couple of steps and bent to grab her hands. She groaned, but allowed him to help her stand up.

"Oh, I think I might pass out," she said, swooning against him.

"Yeah, let's both get hydrated," he said, holding her steady.

"And into a shower."

"First things first, dear," he said.

She laughed almost deliriously. "You said _let's both!_ I didn't mean both of us… not together!" she said. "Or… I dunno. Maybe I did!" And she laughed again.

"Yeah, you definitely need to water your brain."

He helped her to the hallway, and led her down a corridor where she'd never been. He turned and opened a door, and a rush of cool air hit them. It felt heavenly.

"What is this?" she asked.

"A walk-in refrigerator," he said. "Stores of water for years."

He disappeared inside, and emerged a few moments later with a large bottle of water in each hand. He handed her one, and kept one for himself.

"Oh, this is perfect," she said, unscrewing the wide-mouthed bottle and downing a quarter of it in one go.

He did something similar, and they both slumped against the wall to rest for a moment.

"Hang on," he said, after getting his bearings. And he walked down the hall and disappeared around a corner for about a minute. When he appeared again, he had found a fresh jacket to replace the one he'd left in Bliff's lair.

He rejoined her against the wall and continued to sip water.

"All right?" he asked, after another few moments.

"Much better, thanks," she said. She stood up straight and walked about a little. "Ooh, I was a bit brain-addled."

He chuckled. "Nah. Just…"

That's when a loud buzzer sounded across the TARDIS and startled them both.

"That's weird," the Doctor said with a squint.

Martha took a big swig of water. "I'll say."

The two of them walked back to the console, and the Doctor took some readings from its instruments. He stood, sipping water, waiting for the results to come back, and eventually he said, "Oh, boy."

"What?"

"Well… there's a disturbance. In 1996."

"1996? In _the year_ 1996?"

"Yeah," he said. "In your neck of the woods, too."

"Earth?"

"Yeah. Britain, in fact."

"Really? What kind of disturbance?"

"Oh… how to explain?" he said. "It's this sort of interdimensional thing…"

He stopped talking for a moment and just stared.

"Go on," she urged.

He looked at her earnestly. "There's this society. They are humans who live in pocket dimensions all over planet Earth, and they know how to sort of… manipulate energy."

"They're humans?"

"Yeah."

"Who live in pocket dimensions?"

"Yeah. Live and work and play and travel… almost exclusively in these pockets. Some of their goings-on are in _your_ world, but they sort of avoid it because, well, they tend to attract attention. They look a bit awkward when they try to appear as average humans."

"Do you think I've ever met one?"

"Maybe. Probably. Why are you asking _me?_ I've no idea." At that, he picked up his water and swigged it.

"And they just… come and go as they like? Between _dimensions_? Humans?" If she'd had more energy, she would have acted more incredulous. As it was, she asked the questions deadpan, and seemed in mild disbelief.

"Yeah," the Doctor said, setting down his water bottle and scratching at the back of his head. "And this disturbance is… well, it's disturbing indeed. It's dark. Dark, dark, dark. Something like this happened fifteen or so years before that, but… blimey, this is bad news."

"What do you mean by _dark_?"

"Like I said, these people know how to manipulate energy, and they navigate between their world and yours with absolutely no problem. They are perceptive and receptive, sentient and conductive in a way that 'average' humans are not. They call themselves wizards and witches, and the manipulations that they do, they call it magic. And people like you, who cannot perceive their world without their assistance, nor perform the tasks that they can, they call Muggles."

"Muggles?"

"Yeah."

"So, are they wiccans?"

"Well, the seat of their wizarding world in America is Salem, Massachusetts, so who's to say there isn't _some_ connection?" he said. "But wicca is a religion, and wiccans, by and large, choose to be wiccans. And they don't know about the _real_ wizards – the vast, vast, vast majority of humans have no idea."

"How many of them are there?" she asked.

"In the wizarding world?" His eyes grew large in a way that let Martha know he'd never really bothered to wonder about it before. "I would guess… maybe, around a million at any given time. Maybe a bit fewer than that. They exist all over the planet, but their pockets are small."

She chuckled, and sipped at her water. "Okay. So… now I'm a Muggle? Blimey, I do wear many hats, don't I?"

"You're a Muggle. And by their standards, so am I," he said, almost bitterly. "Anyway, you asked about how the disturbance could be _dark._ There are different kinds of manipulable energy, and ordinarily there's no problem. They use the elements, forces of wind, fire, earth and water. Use of magnetic and electrical fields, the power of the human mind – it's actually quite beautiful. But it can all be turned dark. Which _does_ cause problems and puts things at an imbalance, which then alerts the TARDIS."

"Oh, so I suppose they would call it dark magic."

"You got it. It's made up of the same stuff as regular magic, but it runs on hatred and fear, revenge, hunger for power – the darkest bits of the human spirit. It marshals its forces for more incendiary purposes, for more selfish people…" he sighed.

"Why are you just learning about it now? If it's 1996?"

"That's where we are. 1996."

"That whole thing with Hom Bliff was happening…"

"…when you were twelve. Well, on a distant planet, but still."

She smiled. "Wow."

"But now, I think we'll have to visit a wizard friend of mine, just to make sure that everything's all right, because let me tell you… the TARDIS is not best pleased. She's feeling a bit nauseated, truth be told."

Martha stroked the console, as it was the only thing she could think to do. "Are we going inside one of their pocket dimensions?"

"Yeah," he said, as he seemed to set coordinates. "There's a wizarding school in Scotland. My old friend is a professor there."

"How will I fare, as a Muggle? Will I be able to see what's happening?"

"Oh yeah," he said to her, almost squeaking. "There's even a Muggle who works there as caretaker. Muggles can _see_ their world, if they are guided inside. It's like the TARDIS. If you know it's there and how and where to find it, you can find it. If you don't know, then it will always escape your notice. Did you know there's a special magical platform in King's Cross station?"

"What?" she asked, with a big smile.

"Yep. Pretty amazing, eh?"

"So this school…"

"It's on a cliff-side over a lake in the Highlands. People who drive through that area in their cars just see empty countryside. If you come in via wizarding channels, however, you're able to see the castle sitting there, where it's been for a thousand years. It's aggravating how well it works, actually."

He shoved a toggle of some sort into place, and the TARDIS jostled. They both held on, as the gears grinded and took them to their destination.

* * *

The potions cabinet was a bloody mess. Ingredients had been systematically pilfered all throughout last year, but at least the thief had kept the shelves neat. Although, as the end of the school year approached and the Tri-wizard Tournament had grown closer, the thief had got hasty and more desperate, and had begun leaving disarray in his wake.

Professor Snape had had his suspicions at the time, that one of the Tri-wizard Champions was, in fact, the insufferable, bespectacled culprit. Now he knew better, and reckoned that the desperation was caused by the thief having been very busy rigging the results of the Tournament and whatever increasingly frenzied ferrying of information he was doing for the Dark Lord. It became more and more important to maintain the façade of Alastor Moody by using Polyjuice potion, but opportunities for mixing the elixir had grown fewer and farther between.

All summer, Snape had avoided cleaning up the cupboard, depressed as he was by the implications of it, and busy as he had been with the Order of the Phoenix. And when school went back into session, he reckoned he could punish an insolent student (perhaps an insufferable bespectacled one, or one of his little friends) with the task. But suddenly here it was October, and the cabinet was still in a state. So he cursed a bit, rolled up his wide black sleeves and began to rearrange the hundreds of tiny glass bottles.

Not surprisingly, the bottles that used to contain key ingredients for Polyjuice potion were practically empty, if not completely. They were the ones most commonly used by last year's thief, now a soulless, aimless prisoner forever in Azkaban. Fortunately, Snape had re-ordered entirely new cases of all such ingredients before the term had begun. Those ingredients were needed for other potions as well, and were going to be used in class, during the next month or so.

Five minutes into his tedious task, he heard a familiar sound. It was a sound he had not heard in, perhaps, ten years, but it was unmistakable. It was the sound of a time-travelling vessel piloted by the only non-wizard Snape had ever really trusted, a man who had hidden him from a terrible fate, when even Dumbledore had seemed unable.

Snape stuck his head out of the cabinet and spied, at the front of the classroom, a blue box materialising with a great, big, blustering, grinding noise. Snape stood with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for the Doctor to emerge.

When someone did emerge, it gave him a terrible shock.


	2. Chapter 2

**Oh, boy, this chapter was fun to write! I think you'll enjoy it!**

* * *

PART II

Fortunately, Professor Snape had spent the last fifteen years very carefully honing what Muggles might call his "poker face," should he be called upon to act as a double-agent (which would almost certainly be coming to pass in the next few years, given the state of things). And so, he was better than most at hiding shock.

"Doctor," he drawled, as a tall man in a brown pin-striped suit stepped out of the TARDIS.

"Hello, Severus," said the tall man with a bit of a smile. "How are you?"

"Ducky," said Snape. "You?"

"Same."

A woman stepped out of the TARDIS then. She was unfamiliar to Professor Snape, and she seemed nervous. "Hello," the Professor said to her, with suspicion.

"Hi," she said with a smile and a little wave.

"Professor Severus Snape, allow me to introduce you to Martha Jones," said the man in the suit.

"Charmed, I'm sure. Muggle?"

"Likewise. And, er, yes," Martha said uneasily. She seemed put off-balance by Snape's very presence, which suited him just fine. "So, um, how do you know the Doctor?" she wondered.

Snape shifted his gaze to the eyes of the other man. " _The Doctor_ ," he said slowly, carefully. "Concealed me from a group of men who were out for my blood. They felt I was a traitor and had tortured me for information which I did not ultimately give. _The Doctor_ rescued me and saw the issue handled before returning me safely to the school. I was exceedingly grateful."

"Oh yeah, I can tell. There's gratefulness all over that stony face," the tall man said flatly, almost without moving his mouth. "I'm sorry, Snape, but am I detecting some… hostility?"

Snape looked him over. "Oh, you know me," he said. "I'm not a demonstrative man, even on the best of days."

"Oh, you're being plenty demonstrative."

"It appears you've regenerated, _Doctor_ ," said Snape. "I find I'm thrown a bit by the change."

"Oh. Well, you know that's part of the gig, Snape."

"Indeed. It's just that in this incarnation, Doctor, you've such an _expressive_ face. It's a very telling one, if I might say so."

"Erm, thanks?"

It was at this point when Snape noticed that both of his visitors were carrying bottles. And a couple of times in the course of this conversation, he'd spied Martha Jones sipping from it.

"Tell me, Miss Jones," he said. "What is that you carry in your hand?"

"Oh… just water," she answered, shrugging.

"I see."

Her tall friend proceeded to tell the story of a machine that had the ability to withhold heat from an Arctic-like civilisation, and their being obliged to run said machine with their kinetic prowess. Thus leading to the need for re-hydration.

Snape found himself annoyed by the story, partly because it drew his attention to how non-magic folk could be such rubes in the ways in which they were forced to handle their problems. But also, because he felt the whole thing was a lie. And given his previous experience, he was very leery of this man, indeed. That face, with a bottle in his hand…

He needed to find out what was _really_ in those bottles, and he needed the truth about this _Doctor_ and his companion, and why he would show himself here, after all that had happened. And how in the name of Minerva had he got hold of a TARDIS?

He wasn't sure how to do it, so the only thing he could think to do for the moment was to buy time.

"So, what brings you to Hogwarts, Doctor, Miss Jones?"

"Thought you'd never ask," said the whimsical man. "It so happens that a big disturbance has popped up on the TARDIS' radar. Big flaming beacon of dark energy coming from your world, the likes of which I haven't seen since… you know when. It's pushing things all out-of-balance and giving my TARDIS one hell of a bellyache. What's going on, Snape?"

"Well," said the Professor. "You might as well know that the Dark Lord has returned."

"No!" said his guest, seemingly appalled. "How did _that_ happen?"

Snape looked at him, annoyed. "Well, it was a well-triangulated handful of Death Eaters, wasn't it? Manipulating things from outside, and inside, Hogwarts. It all came to a head in a graveyard last spring… quite the to-do, I'm told."

"But I've looked into it. There's all sorts of random (and disturbing) rubbish he'd need to become corporeal again. Not to mention a great big black lead cauldron hauled out to the middle of nowhere…"

Snape nodded. "Like I said, well-triangulated. Harry Potter, unfortunately, was lured into the graveyard and bloodlet for his trouble. And a Death-Eater severed his own hand."

Martha Jones said, "I don't understand."

Her friend set his bottle down on a nearby student table, and began to expound a bit. "There's a cell of… well, basically Nazis. Racists, xenophobes…fascists who want to 'cleanse' the wizarding world of anyone except pure-blooded wizards. Naturally, there's a charismatic and thoroughly evil leader. Well, fifteen years ago, he was gaining a frightening momentum, but was brought down by a protection spell that backfired from a child he tried to murder. A baby, really."

"Yikes. Who put that spell on him?"

"His mother," Snape growled. His voice caught Martha's notice, and she saw him swallow very distinctly, and break eye-contact for the first time since they'd arrived.

"Since then, he's been basically neutralised and more or less non-corporeal, and his followers have gone underground," the taller man explained. "But now… Severus, are you seriously telling me they're back? It's all happening again?"

"Indeed," said Snape.

The man moved around the space a bit frantically. "One of his followers must have helped him do a ritual that required the blood of that child."

"Oh my God!" she shrieked.

"They just needed his blood, not his life, right, Snape? He's okay?"

"He's fine," Snape said. "He's currently in his Charms lesson down the hall. He's got a nasty fresh scar on his arm and an even nastier chip on his shoulder. But he is, for the purposes of this conversation, well."

"Good. So you're still keeping tabs on him?"

Snape nodded. "However insufferable he may be."

"Yeah, well… you're doing the right thing. He needs you."

"Thank you for the validation, _Doctor_ ," said Snape, chewing on his words more than usual.

The man squinted at him, and seemed to search him for a few minutes. "No temptation, then? None of those old stirrings?"

Snape squinted back. He reckoned he couldn't be too careful. "I don't wish to discuss it, but thank you for your concern."

"So, let me get my head round this," Martha said, setting her own bottle down on the table beside the other. Now, gesturing with both hands, she laid out the whole story as she understood it, right up to where she and the Doctor had heard the sound-off inside the TARDIS alerting them to the gathering of dark magic.

But Snape didn't hear anything she said. He was fixated on the bottles.

"Doctor," he said. He may or may not have interrupted Martha's monologue. Either way, his two guests looked at him with a bit of surprise and interest. "It might help if you could re-check your instruments, and be more specific about what your TARDIS picked up."

"What do you mean, _more specific_?"

"Frequency? Point of origin? Triangulating resonances?"

"How will any of that help you? You have neurochemistry and abnormally advanced human sentience on your side. The ability to manipulate the elements, and…"

"Magic, yes," Snape corrected. "But as you have always tried to convince me, Doctor, science and magic are entwined. Any piece of intelligence we can excavate that might lead us to the Dark Lord… well, would you withhold it?"

Martha looked at her friend and said, "I understand even less than usual about what's going on here, but it kind of sounds like the good Professor has a valid point."

"Fine," the man in the suit sighed. "Hang on."

With that, he and Martha disappeared inside the TARDIS.

Snape had only a minute or so to act.

Firstly, he extracted his wand and pressed it to the bottle that Martha Jones had left on a table. _"Reveal_ ," he said, hoping to see a delineation of potion ingredients layered out by magic. Not just anyone could do this, but Severus Snape was a potions expert. Ever since he was a child, _ingredients_ just gelled for him, they laid down and obeyed him like a pet.

However, the contents proved to be nothing more than water, as Miss Jones had said. He repeated the process on the other bottle, and the same result was yielded.

Secondly, he turned and faced the potions cabinet, realising that it was in far too advanced a state of disarray for him to find what he was looking for in time to accomplish what he needed to. So he brandished his wand a second time, and muttered the words, " _Accio Veritaserum."_

A small glass vial came flying out of the cupboard and into Snape's hand. He wasted no time emptying the remaining contents into the two water bottles. As he heard footsteps coming toward the door inside the TARDIS, he transfigured the vial into a quill and there it lay on the desk when the two travellers stepped out of the blue box once again.

The man rattled off some facts about the intelligence his vessel had gained. As Snape had suggested, he discussed the frequency on which the TARDIS had picked it up, the possible point of origin being cloaked and the large triangulating resonances occurring… which is what had caused the TARDIS to home in on the energy in the first place.

And now it was a waiting game. He needed to engage the man and his companion in conversation long enough that eventually, they would both pick up their water bottles and drink from them. Various philosophical arguments over how the TARDIS' scientific readings could be applied to the Order of the Phoenix's fight against dark magic did the trick. Martha Jones grew confused and bored, and began to sip her drink as a mere fidget.

Snape moved in for the kill, switching his attention abruptly to her. "So, Martha. How did you meet this man?"

The question left a sour taste on his tongue. He hated making small talk.

"The Doctor?" she asked. "Well, I'm training to be a doctor myself – a physician, that is – and there was a similar kind of disturbance surrounding the hospital where I work. The Doctor turned up just as the insanity started happening – walking, talking rhinos, an alien that looked like a nice little old lady… it was chaos. Fortunately, the Doctor sorted it out."

" _The Doctor_ did, did he?" asked Snape, silkily. One thing was nearly certain: Martha Jones believed this man was the Doctor. It was still possible however, that she was being deceived somehow. More information was needed. "And how long have you been travelling with him?"

"Oh, um, about six months. Yeah?" She looked at her friend for confirmation, and he nodded.

Suspicious indeed.

"And how are you finding life on the open road, as it were, with a Time Lord?" asked Snape, drawling out the last two words as though they were rich taffy.

"It's amazing! Beyond my wildest dreams!" she said. "And I can't imagine anyone better to share it with!" And then she blushed and pointedly avoided eye-contact with both of them. Snape suspected that she couldn't believe she'd been so frank, but that was the objective of Veritaserum, was it not? Clearly the woman was smitten with the man in the suit, but that was hardly Snape's concern.

To his surprise and relief, their tall friend became a bit awkward as well, and momentarily lost his smug, arms-crossed stance. He wandered over to the table and defensively sipped his water. Thank goodness for Muggles and their nervous tics.

And again, Snape pounced.

"All right, now," he said sharply. "Who are you, really?"

"What?"

"Tell me who you are!

"Snape, you know me. I'm the Doctor, remember? TARDIS, Time Lord… saved your life. Any of this ringing a bell?"

Snape searched his features and found no wavering, no indication of untruth. And an untruth could not have been told anyhow, not with Veritaserum in his veins.

Still, he didn't trust what he was seeing and hearing.

"Tell me about this face, this body, this particular regeneration, Doctor," the professor demanded. "How did you come by it?"

"I dunno," the Doctor shrugged, frowning defensively. "I was on this space station, and my friend absorbed the Vortex because... well, frankly, she was too valiant and also too sort of thick to just stay put in the twenty-first century where I'd put her. So, to keep her from burning up on the inside, I kissed her, and the Vortex passed to me, and I started to die. Then I came over all tingly and hot, then there was some flashy flash action, and suddenly I had a new face."

"How did your body choose it?"

"My faces are encoded in my DNA," the Doctor replied. "Every face I have had and will ever have… it's in here already."

"You can't choose a face, or have it chosen for you?"

"It's theoretically possible, but it's rare. A nucleotide or two can be rearranged to suit a need, but it's usually a psychosomatic process that the Time Lord has no conscious control over."

"Really?" Snape asked, taking his time. And it didn't sound particularly like a question.

"There have been exceptions. There are very focused, meditative individuals who actually do design their own faces. But they're like Zen masters or something. Way beyond my ken. I can name like… three specific Time Lords, in all of the ones that I've known, or known _of_ , who could do it. Most have no interest."

"Beyond your ken?"

"Yeah. I've never been disciplined enough for something like that!"

"Mm," Snape said. Again, he studied the man in front of him, who was now exchanging confused glances with his friend. Snape racked his brain. He was adept at the Dark Arts, as well as an expert in potions, and he could not think of a single potion or spell that could be used _before the fact_ , to counteract Veritaserum. There were a number of remedies that could be applied _after_ the administration of the serum, but he'd been with the pair the whole time – there was no way they could have had access to an antidote.

"What's come over you, Snape?" asked the Doctor.

"I'm just making conversation."

"No, no, no, no," the Doctor protested, almost laughing as he did so. "You don't just get all snippety at me and then interrogate me about regeneration, and then tell me you're making conversation."

"I have retarded social skills," Snape said, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's fairly well-known in our community."

"No, you asked me who I was, like I'm a war criminal or something. Well, I am, but that's hardly anything _you_ should be concerned about. So what gives, Professor?"

Snape sighed, figuring now that the coincidence of his face aside, all evidence seemed to prove that this man was, in fact, the Doctor. He was a Time Lord, and not, in fact, a twice-escaped Death Eater.

He began to tell the story. "There's a Death Eater called Bartimeus Crouch, Jr…"

* * *

 **Unfortunately, this is were we part company with Professor Snape. In the coming chapters, the Veritaserum and the truth it yields becomes the star of the show. We will take a strange turn in Part III. It may not feel like the same story.**

 **Like I've always said... good excuses for smut are hard to come by. :-)**


	3. Chapter 3

**For reasons that I don't quite understand, I have been sitting on this chapter for a couple of weeks, nervous to post it. Maybe I was afraid that you would think that Martha's story is out-of-character, or too outrageous for the likes of her. Maybe I was afraid it would make the characters think too differently of one another (which is kind of the point, though). Maybe I was afraid to depart from the Hogwarts scene... I dunno. But it's been through three drafts and two Betas, and I'm taking the plunge! Here goes.**

 **Probably not quite SFW, but still not quite "smutty" just yet. And fair warning, it's a lot of talking!**

 **On a different note, once I realized where this whole Veritaserum thing was headed, I tried to make this chapter more beautiful and evocative than, say, squee-inducing. Please let me know what you think!**

 ***Deep breath* Here we go. We left off after Professor Snape had spiked the Doctor and Martha's drinks with Veritaserum to find out if the Doctor was, in fact, who he said he was. (Barty Crouch junior, one-time escaped convict, as you may know, looks _remarkably_ like the Tenth Doctor. Heh.) No one really knows how long it takes for Veritaserum to leave the system, especially a Time Lord's system... **

* * *

PART III

The Doctor had left Hogwarts satisfied that the Order of the Phoenix had things under control. More importantly, he had left accepting that this was _their_ fight, honouring Snape's request that he _not_ intervene.

And so, newly showered, he sat dressed in a pair of brown plaid pyjama trousers and a blue tee-shirt, in front of the television in the TARDIS' media room. There was a bowl of crisps and two glasses of wine on the coffee table – all that was missing was Martha. They were going to watch Episode VII of _Star Wars_ , not to be released until 2015, but he reckoned this _tiny_ spoiler in Martha's world wouldn't do much harm in the grand scheme of things.

For the moment, he simply flipped through the channels and waited for her.

She appeared in the doorway, dressed in pink pyjama bottoms and her favourite black tank top that she wore for lounging. She was still running a brush through her hair, and before even saying _hello_ , she perched on the sofa beside him and asked, "Okay, so what the hell is a Death Eater?"

He muted the television. "They are followers and practitioners of Dark Magic," he said. "Dark wizards, I guess you could say. But more to the point, they are adherents to the cult of Voldemort."

"He's the…"

"Charismatic Nazi leader, yeah," the Doctor said.

Martha nodded. After a beat, she asked, "And this Crouch bloke, he's a Death Eater?"

"Yep."

"And he looks a lot like you?"

The Doctor exhaled through pursed lips. "Apparently. Enough that it made Snape über-nervous."

"But I thought Snape said he was turned over to those soul-sucker things."

"Yeah, he did say that," said the Doctor.

"So how could he think you're him?"

The Doctor shrugged. "I dunno. They have magic. And moles in all the right places, or so it seems. Plus, Crouch escaped from prison once… who's to say he couldn't do it again?"

"I guess."

"I'll tell you, though, it's weird thinking there's some dark wizard out there who looks like me," he said. "Incarcerated and soulless or no. Too bad he couldn't be a good guy. That could come in handy."

"Yeah," Martha said, with a little flutter in her stomach.

"Ready for some pirated _Star Wars_ from the future?" he asked.

When he aimed the remote at the TV, nothing happened. He cursed, stood up, crossed the room, and lifted the screen, making some adjustments. After a few seconds, the _Star Wars_ theme began to play, and the iconic screen-crawl summary began.

But Martha was distracted. He hadn't done anything special – just adjusted the television. It was simply his presence. Over the course of this insane day, running on the treadmill of doom and then learning about humans who lived in pocket dimensions and performed magic… she'd managed, mercifully, to forget. But now that the dust settled around them, the familiar feelings settled back into her.

"What's wrong?" he was asking, before she knew it. He had caught her staring.

"I was thinking of what you just said about having someone handy who looks like you." Her heart pounded.

"Oh. What about it?"

"I just thought I might like to have two of you," she confessed, and her voice registered playfully, flirtatiously.

The Doctor took it all in stride, but she was mortified. What felt like a brick suddenly turned over in her stomach. What the hell had she just said?

* * *

She didn't know what had come over her, telling the Doctor _exactly_ what she had been thinking. All she knew was that, in the moment, the only thing in her mind was the truth. A glossed-over half-truth didn't occur to her, let alone a lie, and she had felt compelled to speak, rather than omit the truth or remain silent. It was a bizarre feeling, and she didn't trust herself, so she was judicious with how much she spoke during the movie.

By the end, though, she was so into the film that she nearly forgot herself.

"That was amazing!" she emoted as the credits rolled. "It was everything I was hoping for! I can't wait for the next one!"

"You don't have to," he said. "I have it, if you want to see it."

"No, no, I need to absorb this," she told him. "It's like an edifying experience for me."

He smiled, and sat back against the sofa with his feet up. "Wow, Martha Jones is a _Star Wars_ geek. I never would have guessed."

"I know, it's weird. I'm not into _Star Trek_ or _Lord of the Rings_ or anything else. Not even superheroes, really."

"So, what is it with you and _Star Wars_?"

"Well, for one thing, I have a special connection with it. With the original trilogy, anyway. I…" she was able to stop herself short, but only just, and with a herculean effort. And the truth was on the tip of her tongue, just waiting for her to open her mouth…

"Yes? What were you going to say?"

No way she could hold back now, now that he had asked. Reluctantly, but with some relief, she admitted, "I lost my virginity to it."

She gave a groan inside of her head. She did _not_ need the Doctor knowing intimate details like this, especially if they were just going to come out of her mouth without her say-so.

"What, in a theatre?"

"No! God, no! I wasn't even _born yet_ when they came out in the theatres!"

"Then where?"

"In a youth hostel while I was staying in Amsterdam."

He looked at her flatly, in mild disbelief. "You lost your virginity in a hostel?"

"Yes."

"While watching _Star Wars_?"

"Yes. Well, by then we had quit watching it."

"Youth hostels… people are packed in there against fire codes and just sort of crash wherever, am I right?"

"You know you are."

"So, can I assume you had paid extra for a private room?" he asked, smiling now. "Or that it was the night of a football championship of some sort, and the place had emptied out in favour of the pubs?"

"You can assume whatever you like," she said. Her cheeks were burning hot now. She sat forward and took a last bracing sip from her wine glass, as though it would help her to keep her tongue under control.

He gave her a quizzical smirk. "Martha Jones, I'm suddenly seeing you as a bit naughty."

And then his eyes opened wide, momentarily, before he seemed to recover. It was as though _he_ hadn't meant to say what he'd said either.

In response, though his comment didn't require one, she couldn't help herself, she was inexplicably compelled to say _something._

"I'm… moderately naughty. Depending on my mood."

She leaned back against the sofa with her arms crossed, resolved not to reveal anything else. What _was_ this?

"Yeah?" he asked. "How's your mood now?"

"Very embarrassed," she answered, unable not to. "And you?"

"My mood is, in your words, moderately naughty." Again, his expression betrayed something of surprise. "Wow. Where did that come from?"

"I have no idea! You're the clever one! What is going on with us?"

"I don't know, but I don't seem to be able to stop."

"Me neither. Do you think we should stop asking questions?"

And from this point on, there seemed to be a thick fog in the room, a patina of innuendo and unspoken temptation, fascination, torment. It was so potent on the air, they were practically tasting it.

Through the haze, he answered, "I am torn between saying a sensible _yes_ , and the fact that I've come over a bit bothered."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, I want to know about Amsterdam and _Star Wars_ and the hostel, and your first foray into the art of physical love," he told her, a bit whimsically. "But I know that I shouldn't want to know, and it might open a huge can of worms."

"Well… it might make you think differently of me."

"That's what I'm counting on," he said, with low, suggestive lilt in his voice.

"Blimey," she breathed. Then, "Why do you want to know?"

His voice remained low. "I want to hear you tell it. I want to hear your voice saying the words."

"My voice? Describing…"

"Describing actions and desire."

"Because you've… come over a bit bothered?"

"Yes."

"Did I cause that?"

"Yes."

"Just now?"

"Yes," he said, barely audibly. "Well, no. Sort of. I've been slightly bothered since I met you. But tonight, with the _Star Wars_ thing…"

"Doctor…" she whispered.

Temporarily showing some lucidity, he said, "Listen, if you don't want to tell me, then don't. I don't know what the hell is making me say any of it… but it seems that you can't say no if I ask you to, so I just won't ask you to."

"Okay."

After a long, heavily silent pause, during which they both sat with their arms crossed poutily, he said, "But… isn't there a part of you that wants to tell me?"

"Yes," she couldn't help but say.

She studied him for a moment. They were starting down a winding path, and if she took the next step, they would very likely never find their way back. Was that a good thing? And yes, something was coercing them into talking when they didn't want to, and reveal what was on their minds, even if it they'd really rather hide it. But one thing she reckoned: if _he_ was being as truthful as she with his words, innuendos and expressions, then they were entering a new paradigm indeed. The Doctor had given her a look that he'd never given her before. He wanted intimate information about her, and wanted to hear her voice talking about awakening desire…

"I spent my gap year travelling round Europe, my friend Sandra and I," she began. This was more or less of her own volition. She had already admitted that she sort of wanted to tell the story, and she wondered how long she'd truly be able to hold back with this 'truth effect' thing happening to them, even if the Doctor never asked her to say anymore.

"Where did you go?" he asked.

"Started in the Hebrides and then across to Oslo and Stockholm. Then, a couple different places in Poland, the Ukraine, Romania, Austria, Italy, the south of France, Spain… we stayed in Madrid for over four months. Got pretty comfy there."

"I like Barcelona, myself."

"Then Paris, Brussels and The Hague, Amsterdam, Hamburg, Copenhagen, then home."

"Wow! That's quite a voyage!"

"When we were in Belgium, we met these two guys from Ireland, Michael and Rowan. I fancied Michael, Sandra fancied Rowan. They were headed to the South of France, but they decided to come to Amsterdam with us, instead because… well, you know."

"I can imagine why they decided to go with you. And they followed you to Amsterdam?"

"Yeah. You're thinking that Michael got from me exactly what he was after, aren't you?"

"I am."

She nodded. "And you'd be right." Then she sighed. "So, when we got there, to Amsterdam I mean, we four settled into this hostel and we were in a room with six bunk beds – that's twelve people, Irish, Brits, Americans, Germans and one Japanese guy, and we all sort of became friends. There was one television and a DVD player in the room, and one night, a bunch of us decided to get some wine and pizza, and stay in and watch _Star Wars_. About halfway through the first film, Sandra and Rowan were already snogging like… well, a couple of eighteen-year-olds who fancied each other and had had a bit of wine in a dark room. Eventually, they got up and left. They went to a hotel down the street, as you do, you know, when you're a civilised person.

"But Michael and I…" she sighed. "We sat on the floor against his bed, under a blanket, holding hands and snuggling or whatever. But we noticed about halfway through the second film that everyone else was either gone or unconscious. Two of the guys had been watching the TV from their top bunks, and they were out for the count. There were two girls in front of the TV on the floor completely dead to the world, and some of the others had decided to go out to a club. So Michael and I started to snog a bit as well."

"Even with four other people in the room?"

"Even with four other people in the room."

He shook his head, in mock disbelief. "This is nothing that I'd expect from you."

"I'm not as well-ordered as I seem," she said, her voice practically sing-song, with plenty of breath about it.

"I'm getting that," he told her with a smirk. "So then what happened?"

She sighed, and put her head back against the sofa pillows, and fixed her eyes on the ceiling. She was all too aware that the Doctor was sitting right there, listening, within an arm's reach. She could feel his weight on the sofa next to her, could feel his warmth, hear him breathing.

She spoke slowly, carefully. "So then what happened? What does happen in those moments? His hands wandered. He slid one hand up my shirt and squeezed my breast through my bra. It was the first time anyone had ever done that to me, and the sensation hit me like a gale-force wind. Just the suddenness of it, and the idea of his hands on me, in a place where no one's had ever been…"

She shivered, and continued, falling almost into a trance. "Such a simple thing, and… well, I'm older now, and have had a few other experiences sort of like that one. But I can still feel that frisson, the very first hint of my body coming to life. I was coming into life as a woman. It sounds camp, but it's a thing… it's a big thing."

"Oh, I get it," he assured her.

"He flicked my nipple with one finger, and I almost hit the ceiling. With that little gesture, I suddenly knew that in the next half hour, I would come to understand what all the fuss is about. I would _know_ the connection between touch, and… and that need, that _burn_ that bubbles up inside."

He spoke now, almost in a monotone. "And the connection between how the burn rises, and the next touch, and the one after that…"

"Mm-hm. Until the burn is…" and she made a noise with her teeth and tongue that signified _sizzling_ , smouldering, an extinguished fire. She sighed lightly, with voice and breath. "I knew then that I'd leave that room in a different state of mind."

"Such a revelation," he said, low. "Just being _flicked_ through a thin layer of fabric?"

Her voice came out as a half-moan, half-whisper. "Oh, Doctor, I was ripe for it. I didn't know it, but it was something I'd been needing. Some people make love before they're ready, before their bodies are ready to absorb the sensations. I was not one of those people."

"It certainly seems like you were… let's say, welcoming of the experience."

She mused, "I can imagine what someone might do if they're coming from, say, a lukewarm place – at least from the standpoint of a woman. I can't speak for men. But if you're a young woman, and you're not ready, then it seems like the experience would be wasted on you. The pleasure would be lost."

"How?"

Still keeping her eyes trained on the ceiling, she said, "There are channels through the body – paths that pleasure must take, and I find that I have to be conscious of it, to receive the full effect."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Well, you know. If someone is, say, licking you in just the right spot… there are feelings. Tingles. But if you're at all distracted or nervous or disengaged or haven't ever considered the possibility of someone's tongue on your most sensitive area and how it might feel…" She was cut off by a wave of longing, and she closed her eyes, nearly choking on her words. The pain she felt talking to him was a more potent version of the familiar pain she'd been staving off for months.

"Yes?"

She shook it off, and tried to get back in the moment. "If you're not mindful, if you don't channel that pleasure, then it's just tingles. It incites some giggles, some squirms, and it's something to tell your friends. If you're on-point, though…" she exhaled heavily. "If you are fit for it, you can begin to latch onto those tingles and turn them into balls of fire, that jut through your arms, legs, torso. And eventually, they'll burn so brightly that make everything go rigid, make you arch, then cry out, and then they sort of explode through you, which is the objective, right?"

"Sounds like it to me."

"I learned about _latching on_ that night in Amsterdam during _The Empire Strikes Back_. I'm telling you, that burn went straight from my nipple down between my legs, and I was… well, I was his, what else can I say?"

"I don't know," he whispered. "I wish you would say more."

She took a pause, confused as ever about why and how the hell she could be so frank. But then, she had, once again, the compulsion to reveal. "After a little while, he unhooked my bra and touched me, flesh-on-flesh, and again, another whole new sensation seized me. A new kind of warmth – a searing kind. And excitement. But I was feeling more than just anticipatory. I was, like, agitated in my own skin. Buzzing. Urgent. _Desirous_."

"Desirous," he seemed to say, almost without being aware of it.

"I had never felt that way before – I had never felt real _desire_. I could feel myself becoming different on the inside."

"Different?"

"Mm. I could feel myself… lubricating. Physically, of course, but not just that. I was becoming psychologically lubricated as well. Opening up and growing pliant and hungry all in these few moments."

"Don't you feel a little of that psychological lubrication with every new lover?" he asked. "Isn't there something of a _giving in_ that has to happen, every time you decide to trust someone new? I find that there is."

"Oh yes," she agreed. "I'm feeling it happening now." She swallowed hard after she said it.

"Me too," he admitted. After a pregnant pause, he asked, "Where will it take us?"

"I don't know," she croaked, just barely, swallowing again.

"Please tell me more."

She sat up slightly and looked at him. "Okay, but will you talk to me when I'm finished talking to you?"

"Will I have a choice?"

She chuckled. "Touché." She sighed, settled her head into the cushion again, then went on. "I had to know if _he_ felt the same way – was he getting the same revelatory sensations? Was he as ripe as I was? I still don't know if men feel the same spread of warmth that we do – those channels of pleasure I mentioned. But I only knew one way to try and find out, so I decided to be bold, and I reached down to the front of his trousers to see if he was hard."

"I can tell you the answer to that, and I wasn't even there."

"You're right. He was hard. Like a rock." She smiled at the memory. "And it sounds daft, but that was a revelation as well. I knew the mechanics of it, of course, that a cock grows firmer when it becomes engorged, but… that it would be actually _hard_ like a bone, it both frightened and thrilled me."

"Why would it frighten you?"

"I don't know, exactly," she answered. "I suppose the idea of it being harder, less pliant than my own flesh… like a weapon, maybe. But like I said, I found it also thrilling. It made a kind of delicious sense when I thought about it with my whole body."

"You think with your whole body? That explains a lot."

"I think with my whole body, about being fucked." Her words seemed to hang softly upon the air like a bubble to be burst.

The Doctor took a deep, regulating breath. Then, "Had you never thought about it before that moment?"

"Of course I had, but not with any kind of… knowledge. Or immediate anticipation. And since meeting Michael, I'd thought about it more than ever."

"Lucky Michael, eh? That's quite the effect he had on you," he marvelled.

"Yes. An effect… to the point of distraction. Of ache."

"So it was Michael himself that made you ripe for it."

"I suppose it was," she confessed. "Although, I don't know if it was the timing, or if it was him. If I was needing it when I met him, or if the chemistry between us was just…" And she trailed off because she happened to turn her head just then, and noticed the Doctor's chocolate brown eyes gazing into hers. Neither one of them had any choice but to be truthful, and she could swear that she saw a certain thirst in his stare.

"Have relationships since then given you any insight?"

"Insight?"

"As to... was it the timing, or was it him? Was it about your own body, or about the chemistry?"

She held her breath. She reined in her voice and thoughts with everything she had, because she knew what would inevitably come out of her mouth.

"Yes," she uttered. The effort at holding back was herculean, and she ultimately gave up. "I've had a bit of insight since then. Because, only one other man has had that effect on me."

"Of making you feel ripe?"

"Yes."

"To the point of distraction and ache."

"Yes." She thought she might pass out if she didn't breathe soon.

"Do you want to tell me who?" he asked, his voice having gone hoarse.

She was not unconscious of how he had phrased the question.

"I do want to tell you," she said, and then she shut her eyes tight. "But please don't make me."

"Then, what happened next with Michael?" he requested softly. "He's hard, you're soft, you're learning something new every moment…"

"I squeezed and stroked him through his jeans. I heard him moan in my ear – moan and curse. First time I'd heard that sound... it was intoxicating, like I'd been given a superpower."

"Amazing isn't it, what that sound can do?"

"Oh, yes," she practically sighed. "His kissing became more insistent – harder, hungrier. His tongue was in my mouth, almost forcefully. He pushed it in as far as it would go, and then he pulled back again… and kept doing that. And with our hands where they were, and the moaning and the learning… that's when I began to _throb_. That's when my body became truly greedy. Ravenous. Because I had the distinct feeling that he was doing with his tongue what he _wanted_ to do with his cock. So I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him sideways, and laid myself out on the floor on my back."

"Good for you."

Dreamily, she continued, "I was wearing shorts – no fasteners or anything. He just pulled them off me, then pulled the blanket over us. He unzipped his trousers, and his cock appeared, and I felt another momentary bout of fear. This was it – oh, my God, this was it. But I didn't have time to dwell on it because he just didn't waste time. When he pushed inside me… well, he was surprised that it was my first time, but it didn't stop him."

"It wasn't his first time too?"

She smiled. "From experiences since then, I'd guess that he'd been down that road quite a few times. For a gropey twenty-year-old on the floor of a hostel, he rather knew what he was doing."

"That is not how I expected the story to go."

"It wasn't what I expected either," she reflected. "For years, I'd been hearing that the first time would just be something I did, to get it over with. It would be painful – which it was, a little – and awkward and not at all satisfying. I expected that I'd have to wait until much later to have sex that would actually feel good, and make me crave it again."

"But you didn't have to wait?"

"No," she told him. "I craved it again as soon as it was over."

"That's rare, Martha. For a first time, your story is rare."

"I know," she lilted. And she stretched out like a cat, arms overhead, toes pointed. "Those channels of pleasure, from between my legs and outward, that made my fingers and toes curl… oh yes, I understood them now. In fact, I understood them twice that first night."

"Twice?"

"Yes."

He was silent for a few moments. "Twice is nothing."

"D'you think?" she asked, with a little smile.

"I mean, considering that you only have _one_ first time. You must know now… in the arena of love…"

She continued to smile, and dared to look over at him. "You're saying you could top it. Leave _twice_ in the dust."

"Definitely." He gave her one of those eyebrow-tilts that just about turned her into a puddle.

She realised, unsurprised, that she was quite aroused. She was feeling restless in her own skin, looking for a douse of something…

And she was not aroused with the memory, which she relived hundreds of times after it happened, but with talking to _him_ about it. The fact that her voice discussing, as he'd said, _actions and desire,_ was leading him to ask her more questions…

…making her think about fucking, and knowing it, relishing it, spurring her on, bringing her forward…

"And no-one woke up and saw you?" he wondered.

"I have no idea whether they did or didn't," she said. "It's certainly possible."

"And that didn't bother you?"

"No," she admitted. "It made it more fun. And it made me realise early-on that I wasn't going to be the sort of woman who just wants to make love in bed in the dark."

"And you're not?"

"Not by a long shot. I told you, I'm not as well-ordered as I seem."

"I guess not."

"And I need more fire than it takes to make love in bed, in the dark," she lilted. After a beat, she said, "What about you, mister?"

"Me? I like the fire."

She smiled. "Obviously. But I told you my origin story. Now tell me yours."

He groaned. "Clearly, I would if I could – some force would make me. But I can't, because I don't remember it."

"Don't remember?"

"It was over eight centuries ago! And it was a ceremonial act – I didn't know her name, even at the time. All I can recall is, we did not make eye-contact, and we were observed by eight priests."

"Oh, dear," she said. "I'm sorry to hear that. All right then. Tell me your origin story… _in this body._ I trust you remember that one."

"Yes, I remember that one."


	4. Chapter 4

**I suppose I've come to realize lately that the stars have to properly align before I can write and/or post a chapter like this. So it's been a while... c'est la vie!**

 **And so, in case you have forgotten, the Doctor and Martha visited Hogwarts and their drinks got spiked with Veritaserum, because of reasons having to do with an incredible resemblance between the Doctor and a dangerous escaped convict. Later on, with truth-telling literally in their veins, the travelers begin to talk about their pasts... in particular, Martha's. He coaxes out of her a rather sensual re-telling of her first sexual experience, but then she demands the same.**

 **I don't know how you'll feel about this chapter. It's a bit touchy for fans of Martha and the Doctor, to contemplate the Doctor's recent past. Rose is a slippery slope for us. And yet, the possibility of Martha knowing _everything_ is kind of appealing as well, for some reason. I can't really explain why...**

 **As you probably will guess, there is at least one more juicy chapter on its way, and then a bit of closure. think we might actually get to see Professor Snape again... maybe. Remember him? ;-)**

 **Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

 **PART IV**

Martha smiled at the Doctor. "I told you my origin story. Now tell me yours."

He groaned. "Clearly, I would if I could – some force would make me. But I can't, because I don't remember it."

"Don't remember?"

"It was over eight centuries ago! And it was a ceremonial act – I didn't know her name, even at the time. All I can recall is, we did not make eye-contact, and we were observed by eight priests."

"Oh, dear," she said. "I'm sorry to hear that. All right then. Tell me your origin story… _in this body._ I trust you remember that one."

"Yes, I remember that one." He settled back on the sofa, much as she had when it was her turn to talk. He rested his head on a cushion and his heels on the coffee table, and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.

"Do I have to ask who you were with?" Martha asked a bit sheepishly, turning her body to face him. She lounged on her side now, her elbow over the back of the couch.

He smiled, equally sheepishly, though without looking at her. "Probably not."

"I see," she said, gulping hard, forcing down an influx of bile, in spite of the situation. "Then I won't ask, because then you'd have to tell me the truth."

Her tone grabbed his attention, and he turned to look at her. "What's that about? That tone? The sour look on your face?"

"Jealousy," she answered, totally honestly, of course.

"Oh, Martha," he sighed.

"Well, I'm sorry. But up until now, I was able to sort of convince myself that there was at least _the possibility_ that nothing physical had ever happened between you two. You and Rose." She stared down at the sofa cushion, and fidgeted with the fabric between her fingers.

"Well, hold that thought," he said, and then was silent for a long time. Then he asked, "Have I ever told you about her? I mean, really talked about her, and explained to you why…?"

"Why what?"

"Why I don't seem able to… move on?"

"No," she told him. "But I've always wished you would."

"Even with the jealousy?" he asked with a smirk.

"Yes, even with that. One always wants to know what one is up against. I know that Rose herself is only half the story – the rest of it is about _you,_ and hang-ups, and rubbish like that. But it's always been such a bloody sore subject. Never had the nerve to ask directly."

"You're very wise, Martha."

"Thanks," she said, somewhat bitterly.

"And Rose, she was brilliant – but not in the same way as you," he said. "She was brave-brilliant, and indispensable-brilliant. She was not mighty-brain-brilliant, you know? I mean, she wasn't well-educated, but she was street-wise, and practical and had an enormous capacity for compassion."

Martha sighed. "She sounds like exactly what you need."

"Don't get me wrong. You're all those things as well – including the mighty-brain-brilliant that she was not."

"Thanks," she said, much less bitterly this time.

He took a long pause, then a deep breath. "Have I ever shown you a photo of her?"

"No."

"She was - is… well, beautiful. But again, not in the same way as you. You…" he chuckled a bit, then took a deep breath. "You sort of _drip_ with elegance, even when you're running for your life. She didn't have an ounce of elegance about her. She was this spunky, sort of chavvy girl who worked in a shop, but she was… I don't know how else to say it… almost a diamond in the rough."

"Well, we both know that beauty comes from anywhere," she commented. "What was she – blonde, brunette, ginger?"

"Blonde," he answered. "But blonde of the bottled variety. I think she thought I didn't notice."

"But you did."

He turned his head slightly to look her over. "I'm a very observant man, Martha."

"Really? I've always thought you were somewhat blunt that way."

"Trust me. Not blunt," he assured her, making eye-contact and crooking an eyebrow ever so slightly. "Just not terribly verbose about the things I notice."

"Mm," she commented. "Like most men, I suppose."

"Perhaps. Because there were things about Rose Tyler that were _really_ difficult not to notice."

"Like what?"

"Oh," he groaned, remembering, studying the ceiling once more. "She had these deep brown eyes, large and almond-shaped. I always thought of them as Egyptian. And she had a way of doing her makeup just-so, to make them _pop_ , like a big splash of red paint on a canvas."

"That's hard to do correctly. She must have practised. What else?"

He took a long pause, and Martha could see the faraway look in his eyes.

"Oi," she said. "No need to get too wistful here. Have you forgotten who you're talking to?"

"Absolutely not," he said, calmly. "No part of me has forgotten."

"Then what were you going to say next?"

"Her most memorable feature was her mouth."

"Of course."

"She had this incredibly wide mouth, and these _amazing_ lips."

"What, like Julia Roberts?"

"Yes, but more dramatic, much more sculpted. Much more… tempting," he said, letting out a long hiss of air.

"A tempting mouth. I'm guessing this is where we get to the good part."

"Mm," he agreed. "But again, hold that thought. Because, as excellent a companion as she was, she was also sort of… clingy. And she fancied me, that was clear, but she was a bit adolescent about it. She batted her eyes at me, and bent over at opportune times, made sure to rub against me, _just so._ "

"Oh!" Martha said, with some surprise. "This, I never pictured."

"And she would get _mightily_ jealous whenever I spoke to any other woman," he said. "Well, any other _young_ woman. One time, there was this party, and one of the catering staff was called Lucy, and you know… she was cute, what else can I say? But Rose nearly drilled holes into my forehead when I said that I'd spoken to Lucy about… whatever it was. Something to do with reconnaissance – it's not like I was chatting her up."

Martha chuckled. "'Course not."

"Blimey, I thought laser beams were going to come out of her eyes," the Doctor muttered.

"Did she ever actually use words?" Martha asked. "I mean, to communicate any of this to you?"

"Only once, at the very end, after it was too late."

"Oh. I'm sorry." And she was sincere. She had no choice other than sincerity.

"But she had that way about her, the things she did with her eyes, even when she was pissed off at me. The way she narrowed them, and the seething behind them… the way she smiled with them, the way she flirted with them… it was all very titillating. But when it came down to it, I couldn't take the next step with her."

"Too adolescent?" she asked. When he didn't say anything for a few moments, she rushed to point out, "Your word, not mine."

"I suppose… yes. And the sort of coquettish non-confronting of the issue, and the clinginess… it all got a bit tedious. I feel guilty for saying it, for feeling it, especially given how things turned out, but it's obviously the truth. Even I got sick of us. I mean, I had feelings for her, but God, everything we did had this patina of puppy love all over it. We were pleased with ourselves, and with each other… ugh, we must have been obnoxious." He was contemplative for a few moments. "And I think part of me must have known that, even then, because like I said, I could never quite take the next step."

"So, _she_ must have taken some sort of _next step_."

Then, after another pause and another deep breath, he continued. "One night, after I got left behind on an asteroid orbiting a black hole, and we both almost got sucked in, we just sort of collapsed in one of the media rooms – not this one. We were almost separated forever that day… and at the end of it, we were happy to still be together, but shocked and traumatized. And like you and I today, she and I just decided to get into some pyjamas, put on a film and lick our wounds. And for the first time ever, she snuggled up beside me on the sofa and pulled a blanket over us. As you can imagine, I didn't exactly protest," he said.

"That was the first time she'd done that?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "You know, now I think of it, that day, just after conflict started but before all hell broke properly loose, for the first time, the subject of being together forever came up. Of living together, possibly building a life… it was mostly her talking and me looking at her contemplatively. But it was a big step, I think, in both of our minds. I looked at it as appealing but dangerous – almost, sort of, the way I often viewed Rose herself.

"But I suppose to her… well, the conversation must have emboldened her, and the possibility of separation must have made her feel a bit voracious. Because for all of the clinging and flirting and innuendos, this was the first time she ever tried to get cosy."

"She was afraid of some sort of physical rebuke," Martha whispered. "The way you tell it, she probably would not have been accustomed to being rejected by men."

"Probably not," he agreed. "But I suppose… I'm not your average man."

"Indeed not. She wouldn't have known how to recover from it."

He smiled and looked at her. "What about you? How often has rejection happened to you?"

"Well, not that often," she confessed uncomfortably. "The bulk of it has been over the last several months."

"Sorry," he retorted, quietly.

"Just keep talking."

He nodded. "We sat there, under a blanket, watching some angsty, glib, poorly-lit, Gen-X flick from the 1990's and suddenly, under the blanket, I feel her hand creeping over my thigh. I tried to ignore it, but, well… it was a thinner-than-usual layer of fabric between my body and hers, and she was already pressed against me. Her scent was in my nose and in my head… and that hand of hers was not backing off. It just slid up and up… trailing circles, going slow…"

He shuddered a bit.

He went on. "And of course, she found me hard as a rock when her hand finally got to where it was going."

In spite of herself and the subject matter, Martha felt a wave of lust come over her, and her arousal deepened.

"I should have said or done something differently then," he said. "I should have either removed her hand and had a talk with her… maybe it would have stopped things, or made it easier to go forward with her into something more permanent, deeper, more satisfying. Or, at the very least, I should have reacted to the pleasure I felt. I should have moaned, or said her name… _something_."

"You didn't react?"

"No," he said, gulping. "The blanket made it invisible, and therefore easier to pretend to ignore. I was, of course, excited and feeling coiled and wanting, but we'd been avoiding the issue for so long, and _that moment_ didn't seem like the time to point out that I was bound to outlive her by millennia and that she would almost certainly have her heart broken in the end, et cetera, et cetera. I wanted – my body wanted – whatever sundry wiles she was going to offer, but my brain didn't want to have to acknowledge it."

"Oh, Doctor," Martha groaned.

"I know," he agreed. "I can be a bit of a coward."

"You can face down the scum of the universe and all its rowdy cousins. Stare into the barrel of Time and Space, but…"

"… but look a woman in the eye while she's stroking me off? Yeah, that's too much to ask."

"So you just kept watching the film?"

He nodded. "Though I had no idea what was happening in it." Then he said, "At first she just ran her hands over me lightly through the fabric, and I think I cleared my throat and shifted a bit, and she actually just kept watching the TV as well. But then she reached behind my waistband and put her hand inside… I reacted then. I couldn't help it. I groaned and closed my eyes. As one does."

"Well, good for you," Martha said, with a touch of sarcasm. Weirdly, with this story, she was finding that she felt a bit sorry for Rose.

He stared at the wall for a bit, thinking. Then, "I could tell that… well, let's just say it was clearly not the first time she had done this. She was basically controlling me – my whole body – with one hand. In spite of my impassivity, if she had asked me to throw myself into a volcano in those moments, I probably would have agreed to it."

"Men of all species…" Martha chuckled.

"Expert pressure, expert pace, full steam ahead until I reckoned the end was near, and then a slow, steady back-down… just to make things interesting. Several times she did this – it was like a roller coaster."

"Wow."

"This perfect, clandestine, totally hidden roller coaster."

"When you put it that way…" she shuddered and shifted a bit, heat within her deepening even further.

He looked her over subtly. "Honestly, of anyone else had been in the room, I wonder if they'd have been the wiser," he said. "Other than maybe my breathing, I don't think there was any external change in me. She turned to look at me periodically over that time, I suppose looking for feedback. She searched my face, my eyes for some sort of recognition, but…"

"Really? No other reaction, ever?"

"Well, not _no_ reaction. I'm not made of stone, Martha," said the Doctor. "As things progress, one wants a bit of leverage, yes? So slowly, almost without realising it, I'd let my hand find its way to her thigh. But I grabbed on, as though I were on, like I said, a roller coaster. A bumpy ride. It was security for me, not intended as a prelude for her, I regret to say."

"So as you got closer to the end, you squeezed."

"I gave her bruises, I squeezed so hard," he said. "Up and down and back and forth, almost to climax and then back again. Seriously, she wound up with marks, shaped like my fingertips, on her right thigh near the knee."

"She was good," Martha said, her pulse pounding.

"I only know about the bruises because she wore a short skirt the next day, I imagine, half just to show me what I'd done, and to dare me to mention it."

"And you never did."

"Of course not," he said.

"Did you not even react when you came?" she asked, lowering her voice to an intimate, conspiratorial level. "I mean, did you really just sit there, watching the film and acting like you _weren't_ spasming, at the height of pleasure, right there in her hand?"

"It was _intense_. It was one of the most intense climaxes of my life. One of the most longed-for, one of the most inevitable, one of the most expertly-produced. But other than squeezing her thigh until it was black and blue, and maybe squinting my eyes when my vision blurred…"

"Jesus, Doctor," she groaned.

"I know. I might have been better off just pushing her away when she cuddled up to me," he said. "It would have been less humiliating to us both, in the long-run. I reckon she probably felt used."

"Yes, but… I also think she probably understood."

"You think?'

"I would have."

"Really?"

"Yeah," she said, reluctantly. "Not that I think you should make a habit out of it. Not that I think that all of this doesn't require some serious introspection."

"Oh, I know, Martha. I have introspected to the point of madness at times."

"I've noticed," she said. "Okay. So, what next?"

"How do you mean, _what next?_ "

"I mean, the next time, with you and Rose?"

"There never was a next time. I thought that was clear."

"Never? Just one never-discussed hand-job under a blanket? That was the extent of your physical relationship with her?"

"Yep."

"Neither of you ever made another move?"'

"No."

"So you've had _how many_ sexual encounters in this body?"

"Well, if we're counting that one, then… one."

She sat up straight and looked at him. "Doctor! How is that possible?"

"You know me, Martha," he said, looking back at her, now sitting up himself. "You know my life."

"But, I mean… you must look in the mirror and think… well, don't you feel a bit cheated?"

"After the way I behaved with her? And with you? I'm not worried about me. Besides," he added. "This body still has a few good years left in it. A few centuries, maybe. Depends on how dare-devilly I decide to get."

Martha smiled. "Well, Doctor, this is a surprise."

"What?"

"Well, all that description of her," Martha said. "Her brand of brilliance. Her expressive Egyptian eyes, the way she'd rub against you, her bottle-blondeness…"

"All of that was, I suppose, preface to the extraordinary letdown of later on," he said. "She was… well, smoking hot. And we wanted each other, but… I also did describe a certain tedious adolescence about her, remember? Maybe I just thought that the incident under the blanket was just part and parcel of that."

"I could see that," she conceded. "And I can see how you'd feel lust toward her, and even maybe love her, but still never quite be able to bring yourself to breach any serious talk of _being_ with her."

"And not just because she's eight hundred and some-odd years younger than I am. It was all just too much. Too sweet. To cute. Too impermanent, even in the small scheme of her life."

Martha smiled again. "But you made such an almighty fuss about her mouth."

"Ah yes, well…" he stumbled. "I guess, if we're being honest – and what choice do we have? – if I had fantasies about Rose, they ran to her mouth."

"Mm. I thought at the very least, she'd have…"

"But she didn't," he said.

"Not in all those times, sitting in front of the TV? Never just slipped down under the blanket, with a bit more than hands and fingers?"

"Never."

"So these days, when you think of her, this is what you think of? Her mouth doing things to you? The roller coaster?"

"Yes," he admitted. "And how much I fucked it up with her."

"How would you fix it?"

"Honestly?"

"Of course."

"I'd have stopped her sidling up close to me at all."

"Really? You would have stopped that whole thing before it began?"

"The only other thing I can think of is never meeting her at all. Or stopping myself from falling for her, and neither of those options sounds fathomable in the least."

"You wouldn't react more to her touch, give her another moan or two, whisper her name, relish the pleasure, and let her give you more of it? You wouldn't choose to open the door to all of that, and then give her a bit of pleasure of her own?"

"Martha…"

"You wouldn't actually look into those Egyptian eyes? Watch them water, watch them plead with you, and then roll back in her head while the rest of her falls apart? Wouldn't you have loved that?"

To her surprise, again, she realised that talking about this was making her feel more than "a bit bothered," as the Doctor had put it. She almost couldn't believe her own words. Describing in as much detail as she dared, the sexual tangle that _could_ have existed between the Doctor and Rose… something she had pointedly avoided contemplating before. She supposed that knowing it had never happened was making her feel empowered to feel the words with her body, and say them out loud, using the voice he said he'd wanted to hear, describing desire…

"Mm," he nodded. "But still when I think of all of that, as good as it feels and as much as I get off on it… I feel ultimately empty. I think about what we would have said to each other afterwards, when we were upright and in the daylight, and I can't imagine what that relationship would have been like. I feel like I would have constantly been reassuring her, navigating through her clinging and insecurities, promising that I loved her and no-one else, and… well, denying that I have a past. It would have been exhausting."

"Denying you have a past?"

"Yes, it would have driven her barmy to know she wasn't my first love," he said. Then, looking Martha over, he said, "I would never have been able to have _this_ conversation with her. She would haven't been able to take it, without losing her mind just a little."

A sly smile slid over Martha's face, and she very coolly rested her head against her hand, and her elbow against the back of the sofa. Half an hour before, she would have been appalled that whether she liked it or not, the truth was probably about to come tumbling out of her mouth. Now, she was glad for something to help boost her candor in this moment.

"What?" asked the Doctor, with a similarly sly smile. "What's with the face?"

"You've told me that I possess qualities that she didn't."

"You do. And I meant it. You _do_ drip with elegance at every moment. You _are_ chuffing brilliant. You are _definitely_ more of a grown-up."

"And in spite of that, or because of it, I'm finding, more than usual, that I'd really like to outdo her."

"More than usual?" he asked with one eyebrow raised.

"I always want to be better than her," she said. "Be faster, stronger, smarter, prettier… more indispensable to you. Until now, I thought I'd never get there."

"Until now?"

* * *

 **Don't forget to leave a review! I thrive when you talk to me! :-D**


	5. Chapter 5

**And here we go! This is some quality smut, if I do say so myself, and there is nothing ignoble about smut for the sake of itself. I have spoken!**

 **Having said that, it miiiiiiight not hurt to go back and read the previous two chapters, as you lead up to reading this one. This one might make you feel like you've been dropped into a pot of boiling water, whereas if you work up to it, you might be more likely to feel the intended slow burn. ;-) Also, I tried to pull together their two previous narratives and make it so that Martha really does outdo old what's-her-name, without giving the scene too much baggage. *shrug* I've been known to bog down sexy scenes with baggage. It's a flaw.**

 **Either way, enjoy. And remember, our heroes cannot lie to one another right now. Their water bottles were spiked with Veritaserum! **

**(Speaking of which, I had been planning on returning to Hogwarts for an epilogue with Professor Snape, but I think I've changed my mind. I don't know what really needs saying between the Doctor and Snape at this point. And as I said, Snape and his Veritaserum pretty much exist in this story as a "reason" for our heroes to start gettin' really honest! ;-) ) **

**By the way, Happy New Year!**

* * *

PART V

A sly smile slid over Martha's face, and she very coolly rested her head against her hand, and her elbow against the back of the sofa.

"What?" asked the Doctor, with a similarly sly smile. "What's with the face?"

"You've told me that I possess qualities that she didn't."

"You do. And I meant it. You _do_ drip with elegance at every moment. You _are_ chuffing brilliant. You are _definitely_ more of a grown-up."

"And in spite of that, or because of it, I'm finding, more than usual, that I'd really like to outdo her."

"More than usual?" he asked with one eyebrow raised.

"I always want to be better than her," she said. "Be faster, stronger, smarter, prettier… more indispensable to you. Until now, I thought I'd never get there."

"Until now?"

By way of an answer she moved fluidly, slid the wine glasses aside and sat down on the coffee table in front of the Doctor. He watched her very closely. She put her hands on his knees, and he sucked in an audible, but muted, hiss of air.

"Until now, well, I didn't know things. I didn't know enough." Her voice lilted like flute music, and it was just a bit intoxicating. "But I've been paying attention over the last hour, and I've noticed something."

She didn't wait for him to ask _what_ she had noticed. She leaned forward and pressed her hand against the bulge in the front of his brown plaid pyjama bottoms, which had been forming since she had been in the middle of her story about the Irishman in Amsterdam.

His eyes slid shut involuntarily, and he moaned a little.

When he opened them, she was smiling subtly at him. "And all we've done is talk."

"You're right," he whispered, keeping eye-contact.

"And you can't lie," she pointed out. "I mean, I'm assuming that no part of you can."

"I reckon you're right again."

"So," she said, standing up. She turned and picked up the television remote and switched it off. Then she pushed away the coffee table with her foot, giving herself room to move. "So, no TV, no blankets. Nothing left hanging in the air, undone or unsaid. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it right."

"Okay," he said, gulping, his voice rasping and dry.

She knelt and pressed his knees apart. She reached into his pyjama bottoms and freed a length of hard, eager flesh. She stroked, and he swallowed hard.

"And after tonight, you can obsess over _my_ eyes and fantasise about _my_ mouth," she practically sang. "Only, dare I say, more so?" With that, she dipped her head down and engulfed him in her mouth.

His vision blurred and he lost ability, temporarily, to hold his head upright. He sucked in hissing air between his teeth, digging his fingers into the upholstery beside him. When he could see again, he looked down at her, stunned, and found a pair of deep, dark, intelligent eyes looking back. The effect derailed any control he had – which wasn't much. The sobre brilliance behind those black pools, and the shocking act of lust being committed by her mouth as it closed tight and moved back and forth, over and back… the juxtaposition was slightly jarring. But it was perfection. The combination was absolutely mind-numbing. In the best possible way.

She seemed to read his thoughts, and she smiled a bit, even showing a tantalising bit of her teeth. This gave her tongue room to sway, and she teased at the head of his cock, and enjoyed, once again, seeing him lose his faculties for a few moments. She giggled a little, and it made him smile, and laugh a bit himself.

She applied her hand to the base and began to move her mouth back and forth in earnest. In these moments, she reminded herself, with wonder, that this man was not, in fact, human. But, he _felt_ exactly as though he were. Every human reaction that she knew about was present in him – all the hardness, the throbbing, the warmth, the little pulsations signalling pleasure and tension. Even the moans of partial-words coming out his mouth at irregular intervals were, more or less, in English. Even if it was just in this one little way, the Doctor was predictable. And this gave her confidence.

Because it meant that she really could outdo her predecessor. It was childish, but she honestly did want to be free of Rose's shadow, and this seemed an excellent way to start. Being brilliant in the Doctor's eyes was not enough. Being the one with whom the Doctor _could_ maybe take the next step… that wasn't good enough either. She actually had to take that step with him, and _be_ _better._ And with each caress, each moment that went by, each little pulse or thrust he involuntarily gave, she realised that she, too, could bring him to the brink and then back him down several times. She, too, could give him that "expertly produced" climax that made him twist up his hands hard enough to bruise.

Only she was doing it in a way that he _could not_ feign to ignore, nor would he be likely to forget for a long while. As he dug his fingertips into her arm, and his body tensed up in anticipation of some fantastic explosion, she stopped. He exhaled laboriously, probably not surprised that she had done this, and narrowed his eyes at her, as if to try and focus. She sat back and smiled at him. Though, after a few moments, she looked him straight in the eye, then raked her teeth and tongue lightly over the underside of his cock as she pushed toward his body with her lips. He swore (in English) and let his head loll back again, and she reckoned he'd have been extremely hard-pressed to throw a blanket over this proceeding and pretend it wasn't happening.

Once again, she set about bringing him forward, forward, almost to the very edge, and then she slowed her strokes, and eased him back down again.

Again and again she did this, flirting with her eyes, pulling tight with her mouth, using her tongue and teeth and hands, making damn sure that he couldn't sweep any of it under the rug. Once in a while, he hissed some fevered encouragement, or said something like _you are bloody amazing,_ and it was music to her ears. It was like a large, green veil had been lifted off their entire relationship, and everything was, so to speak, laid bare.

But eventually, she realised that she, herself, was unravelling. The Doctor's growing need aside, she had been feeling squirmy and bothered ever since their conversation had begun. And now… with the _real_ sensation of him in her hands, between her lips, against her tongue, the taut urgency on his face and in his muscles, the sounds of him in the throes of pleasure… she was now a bit of a coiled spring herself.

And so, this time when she pulled him forward, she didn't slow or stop. Instead, she felt him brace himself for the last time, and she did the same while pushing him over the edge. She steeled herself for the deluge of warm liquid that suddenly filled her mouth, and for the hoarse, burning exclamation that accompanied it. She made sure that he was paying attention as she swallowed, and…

…well, that sealed it. She was ready to pop.

She sat back on her heels and tried to keep the cool, sardonic look she had adopted, but found it difficult. She was too far gone now, too much in need. Instead, she could only give a slightly deflated smile, and some shallow breathing.

* * *

The Doctor, in general, just had a quicker recovery time than most men. Though, she had pulled him through the wringer... he felt well and truly wrung. This had been perfect. He could not have asked for more tension, more excitement, more skill, more engagement or for more of her.

But when he gathered his faculties after a few moments, he watched her try to maintain her composure, and pretend like she hadn't been driven to the edge of sanity by what she had just done. But he knew her well, and... she couldn't lie. As she had assessed of him earlier, no part of her could. Her eyes could not help but betray the longing and lust, and moreover, her breathing was labored, her demeanour was just _different._ She was no longer reserved and wanting. At least not reserved, anyway, and he was determined to quell the wanting.

He leaned forward and pressed her back into the floor, then lowered himself down on top of her. He crushed his lips against hers and plunged his tongue into her mouth. She sucked at it, and the sensation reminded him of her prowess, the incredible, explosive experience she had just given him. He felt another surge-forward of lust; no longer did he feel any sort of spent or sated. Of course, her heavy, desirous breath and writhing underneath and against him might have contributed as well.

He growled her name in her ear, and buried his mouth against her neck and sucked, licked, nipped. She lost all pretence now, and gave in to the thrill. She closed her eyes and moaned, let herself just _feel._ Slowly, he worked his way across her clavicle, to the other side, and licked, sucked and nipped there as well.

His hands wandered. They found the hem of her tank top and his fingers pressed inside the material and felt her hot, velvety flesh beneath, then pushed up toward her head and helped her out of the garment. They found her bum and thighs, and squeezed. They found the waist-band of her pyjama bottoms and wormed their way in.

Eventually, he pushed himself up and sat back on his heels, grasping at the cuffs. He tugged, and she lifted herself to allow him to tug them off her body and toss them aside.

"How are you feeling, Miss Jones?"

"Can't lie," she breathed. "I'm on the edge."

"Mm. I wonder what would happen if I…"

And he pressed his fingers against the cleft between her legs, feeling warm folds and a swollen clitoris through a thin layer of soaked satiny fabric. She cried out in surprise, and scratched at the carpet beneath her. He moved his fingers in close, gentle circles, calmly listening to her take in short breaths.

He increased the pace of his "gentle" circles, and in incredibly short order, she gave a guttural curse, and she came. Her back arched, her eyes slammed shut, her mouth went slack. Her bosom heaved, her whole body buzzed, and he fancied that he could _see_ the waves of sizzling-hot release shooting through her.

When she opened her eyes to look at him, as the excitement subsided, if possible, her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth… all of them looked even more enticing. Everything that flashed in them when they started was still flashing, only more brightly, with more _take me_ in them than before.

"What was it you asked me?" he said to her, as she attempted to recover. He pulled his shirt off over his head, and manoeuvred himself out of his plaid pyjama bottoms as he spoke. "About her… about Rose, I mean."

"Eh?" she asked, panting, not quite cogent enough just yet to connect to what he was saying.

"Wouldn't I have liked to open the door to what she had to offer, and then give her a bit of pleasure of her own? Wouldn't I have liked to actually look into those eyes, watch them water, watch them plead with me, and then roll back in her head while the rest of her falls apart?"

"Oh yeah. I did ask that."

Still on his knees, now kneeling naked, at her feet. "And the answer is, yes, I would have liked to, but I couldn't. So I didn't."

"Couldn't and didn't," Martha repeated.

"Couldn't. She wasn't ready. She thought she was, but she wasn't. I don't know if she ever could have got ready."

"I see."

"You know that you basically outdid her the moment you came aboard, right?"

"I'm starting to get that."

"A few minutes ago, well, you outdid yourself," he said, with a naughty tip of the eyebrow.

"Well..." she began, panting nervously.

"Want to see who else we could outdo?"

"Oh, yes."

With thorough eye-contact, he hooked his index fingers through the hips of her knickers and pulled. He threw them someplace where they would never again be found.

He crawled over her, and whispered how much he'd been wanting her as he sank inside her. He listened to her take in a satisfying hiss as his cock slid in, and then stopped, lodged deep. He waited a few moments and felt the heat, the delicious throbbing, the anticipation on the air. He looked down and saw her looking back, pleading with her eyes. _There it was_.

Then he set about giving her the incredibly vigorous fucking they'd both been craving since they'd begun their conversation.

Martha said she'd thought about this _with her whole body_ , and he was determined to make her feel it in every limb, every extremity, every molecule.

And he succeeded. Each time he thrust forward, hard, fast and with purpose, she shivered everywhere. Her voice escaped inarticulately in moans, in formless, vague expletives. She tried saying his name as he drove into her again and again, but the word would not form on her tongue. It was too precious, too unreal, perhaps too raw.

And he absolutely _loved_ hearing her try, and fail, to say it. He pressed harder, gave her more, bore down and actually tried to overwhelm her senses, because he relished turning her thoughts and language to mush. He inquired with his eyes, and gritted his teeth… _how does that feel?_ He questioned her with body and breath, and he watched her face as her eyes tried to answer. With varying degrees of success from moment to moment, she was able to focus on him. Her brow was furrowing, she was biting her lip, supplicating him to keep going, never stop…

"Harder," she breathed before her head rolled back. Her hands gripped the underside of the sofa, about a foot from her head. After a few seconds, she demanded, "I want you to make me scream."

She had indicated that she was not as "well-ordered" as she might outwardly seem. She had said that she wasn't the sort just to be happy with making love in bed in the dark. This brilliant woman, this intellectual dynamo, this unbelievable problem-solver… she had just told him the story of her first wanton shag on the floor of a room with four other people in it, then had made him go off like a bottle rocket in her mouth. And now, "Make me scream," she said.

He smirked, and said, "All right, Miss Jones. Your wish is my command."

He sat up, then back on his haunches, lifting her bum. He held onto her thighs, keeping them splayed with room for him to move, and he resumed with vigour. He slammed into her with force, his cock attacking a different place inside her, and she let out a yelp. Her fingernails dug into the upholstery under the sofa. The Doctor could hear it scratch, could hear the intensity and hoarseness lying below the sound she had made, and knew he had hit just the right spot. He slammed in again, yielding the same response, and then again, again, again, again, until tears came to her eyes and began to roll down the sides of her face.

"Right there," she managed. "Don't stop!" She repeated those words with spurts of breath and shrieks over the next few minutes…

He watched her, drank in the sight of her, her body, its shape, its golden colour and how it writhed and twisted while "channelling" pleasure, as she had put it. He watched the sweat gather between her breasts, across her stomach and forehead. He watched her nipples grow taut, her cheeks and mouth turn pink, and her nether regions swell and pull. It was possible (though not likely) that his moment may never be repeated, but if he died right now, never to regenerate, he would die happy.

She was exquisite. Her voracity and abandon were delicious, and guaranteed to keep him constantly wanting for the rest of the time they spent together. He had thought before that she just had a cute little schoolgirl crush on him, but had now seen the hungry, desirous place where she lived, and he couldn't un-see it even if he wanted to. He'd heard her filthiest exclamations and now, he was about to listen to, watch and _feel_ her fly, screaming, over a cliff into total release. He couldn't wait - and it put his body right on that precipice now, as well… he now fought to hold back. He could not, would not, grant himself relief until he felt the last throbs from inside of her pulling at his cock, until the last vestiges of…

In a moment of clarity, he pressed his thumb to her clit. He was already fucking her as hard as he dared, and she finally let out that longed-for scream. It was the most satisfying sound he fancied he'd ever heard and he bit his lip with the smugness that he felt and watched her fall apart.

Oh yes. Martha had outdone herself. And everyone else.

He let out a groan with the first wave of languid, hot pleasure that hit him, which threw him forward like a rag-doll and he braced himself against the floor. With the second wave, he buried his left hand in her hair, and pulled – he couldn't help himself. He groaned again and filled her up with everything he had, and the violent waves felt like they would never stop.

Good God, what had she done? What had she coaxed out of him?

What had he coaxed out of her?

He reckoned, in those moments, that the answer to both of those questions was: nothing that hadn't been there before.

And all that was required was just a bit of truth.

* * *

 **So there!**

 **And as always, please don't forget to review!**


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